


Sir Handel, Peter Sam and The High Line

by Monaro



Series: Sudrian History [3]
Category: The Railway Series - W. Awdry, Thomas the Tank Engine - All Media Types
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:00:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28035063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monaro/pseuds/Monaro
Summary: Sir Handel and Peter Sam explore a long-abandoned part of their railway!
Series: Sudrian History [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1883500
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Sir Handel, Peter Sam and The High Line

After Duke came to the Skarloey Railway, historians from all over Britain came to see him.

“Such good condition,” they said. They were in awe. “How could such a famous engine disappear for so long?” Duke didn’t know- and he was a little hurt by these remarks- but he said nothing.

A long time ago, another line had connected with the Skarloey Railway. It had continued from the wye at Werynn on to Lakeside, and up, over the mountains to Ulfstead Castle. It had great plans, to connect the Skarloey with the distant Mid-Sodor, creating a narrow gauge empire, but the money ran out, the NWR’s Peel Godred and Arlesburgh branches had come, and the railway become no more than a seldom-used slate line.

In the Spring of 1971, a group of historians came to Mr. Sam’s office. They had done research on the line, and wanted a chance to explore it. They figured, if an engine like Duke could be lost, perhaps some of the High Line’s stock could remain?

Mr. Sam was concerned. The line was dangerous even when it was open. Steep drops, hastily-made bridges, sharp turns and remote locations made for a dangerous journey. However, Mr. Hugh too wanted to make an inspection. He had gone up to Lakeside with Rusty before, but wanted to see what lay beyond.

One morning, Mr. Hugh brought one of the historians to see the engines.

“This,” he said, “is Mr. Percival. He wants to visit the high line. He thinks there may be something interesting up there- and I agree with him!”

Skarloey and Rheneas looked at each other. They were concerned.

“Normally, I’d take Rusty… but the line is far too long for him, and he is needed here. As such,” he continued, “I’d like two engines to take Mr. Percival up there next week.”

When the day came, he chose Peter Sam and Sir Handel.

But the engines weren't so sure.

Sir Handel grumbled dreadfully. "This is dangerous," he whined to Mr. Hugh, "Why do you want us? Don't you have that flying chair thing?"

Mr. Hugh eyed him. "I'd like to see how the track takes an engine... You're the best at taking bad track, so, naturally, I chose you."

"But what about Peter Sam? He doesn't have special wheels!"

"He has a special funnel- he's the most powerful, most efficient engine on the line. He will lead and take much the weight, while you tag along in case of emergency. Besides, it's not as if we can't lever him back."

Sir Handel eyed Mr. Percival skeptically. "He isn't exactly Sandow, sir. He isn't even Ivo Hugh."

Percival giggled, but Mr. Hugh was having none of it. "He may not be, but the workmen can lever you back. We're taking a coach of them, just in case."

"How many people are coming along?"

-

As it turned out, only twenty.

On the big day, the engines were stood back-to-back, sharing a truck full of coal. Peter Sam stood poised ahead, with a slate truck coupled in front- this would derail before the engine. Behind him, Sir Handel stared bullets at a little red coach, who glared right back. 

"This is silly," Sir Handel snorted, "Why can't I be in front?"

"You'll be in front on the way back," Peter Sam reasoned, "Besides, we'd rather not hear you complain about the bushes!"

Handel wanted to snarl something back- something about his friend's funnel, or how he was peculiarly shaped, or smelled bad- but he raised a salient point. "Eh.... that's a good idea!.. Lead on, then!"

Mr. Hugh checked his watch. "Not yet.. Mr. Percival hasn't arrived yet... My word, where is he?"

After a few minutes more, an old Rover wheeled around the corner and crunched into the gravel lot. Percival, still clad in a suit, threw open his door and came running.

"Terribly sorry," he panted, "Terribly sorry... I had to find my umbrella!... It looks as if it might rain today!"

He wasn't wrong. The sky was a moody gray in the early morning. The others agreed that it might rain yet.

"Nevermind," huffed Ivo Hugh, "Let's just get moving.. We have a lot of ground to cover."

Percival nodded eagerly. "Yes, of course!"

And with a whistle's blast, they set off for the mountains.

\--

Though the rails were still covered with the morning dew, it was a good journey. Peter Sam puffed gamefully up front, while Sir Handel idled along behind, trying to look at something other than the coach. 

Their train was scheduled ahead of the morning run. It was quite early indeed! Peter Sam thought the line looked much different. He hardly left the sheds before seven o'clock- but right now, it was before sunrise. The entire air of the place was blue. Some birds chirped, but for the most part, the world was silent. Whistling, he clattered through a rural flag-stop, surprised to see a figure in a big black hat watching him from a gatepost... He whistled impulsively, and the man- yes, a pale man in granny's glasses- waved back with a smile.

But it still made his wheels wobble; the man looked like a witch, and seemed a grave inhabitant of this early-morning world which he was not sure he liked.

\--

They stood beyond the top station, silently watching the junction. Here, the line split for two directions; to the left, from where Peter Sam stood sizzling, was the slate quarry- familiar, mundane, dusty. The line was straight and the rails gleamed with silver. Rusty had done a bang-up job maintaining it. He knew every grade, curve and bump- yes, despite Rusty's work, there were bumps. But to the right, the line ascended up, into groves of old trees. The woods were thick, with brush and broom growing upon the track. The rails slithered on like dual snakes- and no nickel gleamed on the top of them. The rails were rusty and ancient, not tread upon by anything more than a deer for over twenty years. No little diesel came to maintain them. No gangers kept them clear. Beyond, lie the wilderness.

Mr. Percival looked on, dumbfounded. His mouth lie agape slightly, his eyes glittering and wide. "My goodness... There it is! And you didn't lift the rails?"

"Mr. Brown was confident we'd reopen," replied Hugh, "At least as far as Lakeside... Willing to bet money they've paved over the crossings though."

Sir Handel perked up. "Lakeside?"

"Lake Skarloey," nodded Peter Sam, "That's where the line used to end!.. Skarloey and Rheneas talk about it all the time.. They do miss it.."

"Well," suggested Mr. Percival, bending to the rail, "If things go well, they might see it again yet!"

"Don't be so certain," cautioned Mr. Hugh, "The line's been abandoned for many years. There's likely to be washouts, bad bridges.. I guarantee there's landslides west of Lakeside. That line was treacherous when new. And we still haven't covered the costs of Duke's restoration.. This is just an inspection."

"Uh-uh-uh," insisted Mr. Percival, "An expedition!"

"Potato-potatto," snapped Sir Handel, "Can we get on with this? I'd rather not get stuck up there in the dark!"

Mr. Percival blushed, and walked rather briskly back to the coach.. Not long after, the cavalcade set off oncemore.   
  


The line grew worse. The engines battled through the brush and brambles. The woods had grown in thick here, covering the line as if it had never been there. Peter Sam followed a footpath, then a deerpath, until that too petered out. At last there was nothing but the brambles scratching the paint and eyes.

Until at last, they burst out.

Sir Handel groaned. “Is it over?”

Peter Sam opened one, stinging eye. “Yes I-.. We’ve come upon a road!”

“If I’m correct,” ventured Mr. Percival from his compartment, “This is the Old Morgan Road!”

It was, it seemed, simply a lane through the woods- farther off lay some driveways- white, serene picket fences along little black gaslamps.

And below them lay the shattered concrete.

After a few moments, an old Studebaker truck came down the road, loaded down with hay. Coming upon the crossing, it stopped, staring in disbelief, its driver mirroring the expression almost entirely.

“Excuse me,” Peter Sam asked it, “Erm… what happened to the railway?”

The truck scowled. “What railway? And where’d you come from?”

“Paved over,” its driver explained, “Way back, fifteen years ago.. You need any help there?”

Mr. Percival shook his head. “Oh, no, no, we’re fine! We’ll be on our way soon!”

The driver shrugged, put the lorry in a grinding gear, and rumbled away.

“Nice job, wiseguys,” called the Studebaker, “You broke the lane!”

With a blush and a brief rerailing, Peter Sam soldiered on.

From hereon, the line turned grassy, but not overgrown; the rails wobbled and warped beneath their wheels, but the engines found far less brush in their face.

Peter Sam was enjoying the trip, but Sir Handel was still fuming about the encounter with the truck. “Broke the street? They broke the railway!”

“That’s how it is,” muttered Mr. Hugh. He had taken to riding in Sir Handel’s cab to avoid the branches in Peter Sam and the incessant chatter of Mr. Percival’s enthusiasts, “They figured we wouldn’t come up here again. The council won’t like it, but we told them not to…”

Sir Handel snorted. “And what happened to the trees? If we hardly come up here, why’s this section of line so nice? Relatively speaking.”

Mr. Hugh leaned from his cab and looked forward. He shrugged. “I suppose somebody’s been using it as a walking path… a whole _ lot _ of somebodies.”

The line wound into a blind curve, turning west into a river valley to avoid a series of low hills. Peter Sam tried to slow- he was going a bit fast for his living anyways- but Sir Handel, snorting hard, kept pushing him along. 

“Come on, then, come on,” he snarled, “Pick it up!”

“Slow down,” urged Peter Sam,”Slow up, it’s dangerous!”

  
  


Hugh had enough, and closed Sir Handel’s regulator himself. The engine groaned reluctantly, but went along.

Suddenly, Peter Sam’s brakes came hard on, and he began to whistle frantically- Sir Handel replied easy as ever, shocked into obedience by the abrupt change of mood. The train ran slower and slower, and as the track leveled out, Mr. Hugh leaned from the cab and saw why.

Sir Handel was more in shock than angry. “What is it, Mr. Hugh?”

The old foreman shook his head. “Well, I’ll be stuffed… So,  _ that’s _ why the roadbed’s in such good shape!”

Peter Sam, his truck and Mr. Hugh had come face-to-face with a herd of sheep!

Dozens of puffy, bleating shapes- maybe two hundred- their pelts now beige with a morning mist- were standing on the line. The group had been grazing, but with the arrival of the engines, they’d all looked up and found these metal monsters intriguing. A few had been downright terrified, and were bounding up the line- but those further away stayed put, gathered around a bearded, hunched figure in a rain slicker. 

A shepherd’s hook stood in the man’s gnarled hands. He leaned heavily on it as he considered the engines with pale, blue eyes. With a slight smile, he stepped out from the sleepers, and motioned the engines through.

Peter Sam looked to the sheep. “I don’t know… will they move for me?”

His driver laughed. “Of course they will, boy! Now, come along! Steady!”

Peter Sam began to creep forward, hooting his whistle. The sheep began to scatter, and as he inched along, the line cleared for him. Sir Handel, pushing from behind, clanked ruefully- what was with the pace, the symphony up there?

And as he entered the flock, he too understood- and he laughed. “There’s your groundskeeper for you, Mr. Hugh! All ten thousand of them!”

\---

After leaving the ten thousand groundskeepers in the dust, it was fast running to Lakeside. There, they found a village of ruins.

At one point, Lakeside had been a valued tourist spot. The trains there had called for the boats- paddlers and sailboats that took holidaymakers down the valley. With the death of the High Line, most had gone the way of the dodo. 

The keel of a paddle steamer lay on the beach as the convoy approached. Peter Sam eyed it nervously.

“Wh-what’s that?” he stammered.

They halted for a moment to take a look… Mr. Percival, now down to his dress shirt, peered at the ship through binoculars a little too potent for the short distance. “Well,” he ventured, “By the look of it… The Lakesider II… Fascinating!”

Sir Handel let out a wheesh. “This is boring,” he snarled, “And I’m hot already! Can we get a drink already?”

“We’d better,” his driver agreed, “Or Sir Handel’s gonna be wearing his crown sheet for a hat.”

Percival came back to the coach at a fast run.

\--

Inside Lakeside the mood was DESOLATE. There was a well, and Sir Handel did get his water.. But the yard of the old line was desolate. The dispatcher and superintendents’ offices had fallen into rubble. The tracks lay rusted over, surprisingly not hauled off for scrap during the SKR’s darkest days. A single shed remained overgrown with blackberries.

This had been the Dooiney Highland Railway’s sheds.

By now, the mist had burnt off- and already, it was growing hot. The men had their coats off, and tempers were hot.

Sir Handel sat uncoupled from the train by an elderly water-tower. It was a miracle it held water at all.

“Well,” he snorted,” Are you satisfied? I’ve had quite enough for one day.”

Mr. Percival sank. “Oh, but there’s so much more to see!”

Mr. Hugh idled alongside, putting a hand on Percival’s shoulder. He felt ready to throw the fellow back in the coach and head home, but he controlled his temper- He’d get nowhere with it. “Percival… With all due respect, we’re lucky to have gotten this far.”

“And, why did you have to include us?” Sir Handel added.

Mr. Percival looked to Sir Handel, then back to Mr. Hugh. “Well,” he faltered, “Well, I… I thought that… if we… found any equipment, we could haul it out.”

Mr. Hugh sighed. “I doubt it’s that simple. Any equipment that hasn’t been scrapped is probably too far-gone.”

Mr. Percival looked at his knees. “Then.. Then, why are we even out here?”

Sir Handel guffawed. “Because we needed your money!” After all, chartered trains cost a pretty penny, even on the Skarloey.

Mr. Percival looked down the line… Due west. West, out of Lakeside, and into the mountains. The heat shimmered between the rails, making the green undergrowth beyond look like a mirage. He sat down upon the rail, head between his knees, and wiped the sweat from his head.

Something coughed- something big. Something directly behind him. Pigeons flew overhead, startled into wing, dropping their loads just short of him. Mr. Percival wheeled around, coming face-to-face with a snarl of brambles. A snarl of brambles that had grown over two sidings…

Mr. Hugh had heard it too. He took a few, tentative steps toward the bushes, and called into them. “....Hello?”

Another, phlegmier cough sounded- as well as a grumbling sigh. Then, a voice croaked out. “Oh-.. Hel-..hello?”

Sir Handel’s turn; he was about level with the brambles on his siding. “Say, who’s in there?”

A rusty couch- then, a melodious voice- a little rough from the weather. “It’s… Barney… Who is that?”

Mr. Percival found it hard to contain his excitement. “That’s… Sir Handel, Barney!”

“Sir Handel…?”

“Yes, he’s… he’s an engine! Say, where are you?”

The voice paused... “Well, I’m in the carriage shed… What  _ was _ the carriage shed.”

Mr. Percival ventured again. “Are… you a coach, Barney?”

“No, sir, I’m a caboose!”

Sir Handel snorted. “A  _ what? _ ” But everyone was too stunned to shush him. Mr. Percival, his historians and Mr. Hugh all knew the DHR called their brake vans cabooses.

Mr. Percival tensed. This was the discovery he had waited for. “...Is anyone with you?”

Barney paused. “Well… Well, there  _ was! _ .. I’m not sure… I’m coupled to something, but, I-.. my back’s to them!...”

This was enough for Mr. Percival. He ran for the tool car, grabbing a machete and a pair of trimmers. “Hang on, then, Barney! We’ll have you out soon!”

Mr. Percival set to work at a maddening pace, hacking at the brambles and blackberry bushes. Watching with surprise, a few of the party joined him, including Mr. Hugh and several historians. Even Peter Sam’s crew, bruised and dusty from the pound up through the underbrush, opted to help- and it was not long until they were gazing in at the tail-end of a very old van.

The van’s old eyes gazed from a face made of splintered, rotting wood. The leaking, tin roof of the shed had done little to protect him from the buffeting rain. Atop his shaggy old roof lay the remains of a cupola, part of which had fallen in… as they worked… they made out two ancient coaches- clerestory types, coupled to Barney. But that wasn’t their biggest find.

Sitting beside the line, way back in the shed, was the unmistakable shape of an engine. He was low-slung, with big, rectangular side tanks, a tall, slender funnel, and a huge dome. He may have been old and dirty, but his tarnished brasswork still shown dully under the grime.

Peter Sam gaped in surprise. “...Who is that?”

Sir Handel was turned the wrong way, and couldn’t see. “Who? Who is who?”

Mr. Percival took off his glasses, just to see if the engine was real. “Dooiney Highland Number Three….”

Barney gave him a tired smile. “His name is Freddie, sir…”

Mr. Hugh was in awe. “I can’t believe he’s still here…”

“Me neither….” agreed Mr. Percival.

With a snort, The engine’s face twitched. Flecks of rust fell from his face and forehead. And, with a metallic groan, the engine opened his eyes.

The engine’s pupils contracted, and he began to look around wildly. “Huh..? What… what’s happened to the shed?... How long has it been?”

Mr. Hugh put his hand on Freddie’s bufferbeam. “It’s alright, Freddie,” he murmured, “Your line shut down- and you’ve been here very long- but you’re safe now. We’ll take care of you.”

\----

The engines did not want to go home without Freddie, but they had to. After so long, his bearings probably rusted solid- but, the next month, when they came to take him home, they found that, with a little grease, he was surprisingly spry! Even so, the threat of derailing him burning his bearings was too great, and he was lifted onto a lorry for his journey down the mountain. 

Barney and the coaches were another matter; though rotten through and through, their frames were strong enough; and, as the convoy made its way home through freshly cut brush, they trundled happily behind the workmen’s coach, singing softly in their whispering, rusty voices:  _ We’re going to town, we’re going to town!  _

While awaiting overhaul, Freddie sat in the yard at Crovan’s Gate. He amazed the engines- little and big alike- with stories of hard running up on the mountain. He was glad to see Skarloey and Rheneas again, and endeared himself with all the new engines. When he was sent away to be mended, everyone missed him very much- but even his absence couldn’t entirely kill the mood… 

Mr. Sam, thrilled at Freddie’s discovery, decided to make a move: Now that he had more engines, he could run more trains… So, he enacted a plan not only to reopen the Dooiney Highland, but to install a brand new loop at Lakeside to turn the passenger trains. Soon, financial backers, hoping to reopen the mines and quarries came knocking… And suddenly, the old High Line was again a whir of activity.

And when Freddie came home, it wasn’t the same anymore. It was better.


End file.
